Madison Avenue Steele
by SuzySteele
Summary: Set in the present day. This one's for eaz35173 – thanks for the story suggestion! Inspired by the appended photo circa January 2017, from Mr. Brosnan's twitter feed. May Mr. Steele always retain his impishness. Just how did that Speake Marin watch end up on his wrist?


Laura zipped her suitcase closed with a decisive jerk and plonked it onto the floor of their hotel room. "I will be gladder than anything to get back home and done with this case."

"Now, Laura," cajoled her husband, "I admit this case had its peculiarities. But admit it. You love coming to New York. Shopping at Saks. Dining at the Empire State building. Carriage rides through Central Park. This luxury suite at Speake Marin's expense." He waggled his eyebrows in case she'd forgotten how much fun their en-suite Jacuzzi had been.

"I shattered the heel of my best pumps chasing our forger down the metal fire escape while you sauntered down the elevator."

"I did say the elevator was faster. At our age, we shouldn't be running down fire escapes." He'd arrived downstairs just in time to unwittingly throw open the fire door in the thief's face, knocking the man cold.

"And that homeless guy in the alley threw up all over my dress coat while we were staking out the warehouse." Her nose wrinkled. "Does it still smell like garbage to you?"

"Surely the dry cleaner and our rendezvous in the Jacuzzi took care of that. I scrubbed you twice." The eyebrows waggled again.

"And then there's that BMW you had to rent for this trip. Everyone other visitor to the city takes a cab or the subway."

He drew himself up. "Remington Steele does not take the subway. Irrespective of my deep and abiding regard for Kelly and Sinatra." Further conversation was mercifully interrupted by a knock on the door. "That will be for the luggage." He assisted the young man with their suitcases while Laura disappeared for a last check of their enormous bathroom. So she didn't hear the bellboy's low whistle. "Nice watch, sir." Which meant Steele needed a sufficiently large tip to silence him.

"What was that?" she asked as she reentered.

"Nothing, love." He helped her into the replacement coat that he'd selected at Burberry and followed this with a salute to her neck that normally would have mollified his wife, except she was now in full throttle mode.

"It's beautiful," she said as she smoothed its front, "and I love cashmere but I'm never going to wear this in LA. Thank god we got a good retainer from Speake Marin. And there should be a very generous check coming."

Steele froze in the act of shrugging into his own top coat. "There should? I thought I'd settled that already."

"Of course there should. We caught the employee who was stealing their designs and selling them to the knock-off shops in Chinatown. What did Mr. Eichler say those watches sold for?"

"Ah, anywhere from eight to seventy-five thousand."

"Exactly. A nice, fat, juicy check to cover our expenses."

He made an expression of distaste. "Now, Laura." He hated those sentences that started with 'Now, Laura.' No matter how he tried, they usually ended with her calling him onto the carpet. "All this talk of money sounds rather vulgar and greedy. Speake Marin spent a great deal on us during this case. Perhaps we should forego our usual fee in due consideration." He almost checked his watch, but remembered just in time. "Shall we? Our limo to LaGuardia should be here."

Laura swung her purse over her shoulder and followed him out. "Forego our fee? What on earth are you talking about? What client would respect us if all we did was work pro bono?"

Steele surreptitiously slid his left hand back into his coat pocket and dropped his right arm around her slim shoulders. His new watch was suddenly heavy around his wrist. "Who, indeed? After you, Laura."

He pushed the elevator button and, as they waited, he had an inspiring thought. "Interestingly enough, Laura, this case makes me consider the considerable financial benefit that the right sort of branding might offer the Agency."

She looked sideways and up at him, puzzled. "Branding? You mean like cattle?"

"Advertising, Laura. Just imagine it. Wouldn't a certain caliber of client consult with Mr. Steele if he knew they shared the same, refined tastes? The same exclusive whiskey? The same fine shirtmaker? The same—"

"That's it, Mr. Steele. Pull out your left wrist. How was Speake Marin going to pay us?" said Laura as the doors closed behind them.

THE END


End file.
